


The Best Policy

by runsinthefamily



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-15 23:22:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11816340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runsinthefamily/pseuds/runsinthefamily
Summary: From a prompt on the DA kink meme WAY back in the day:"Alistair got hit by an unusual darkspawn spell which was slowly draining his will from him. Zevran runs to interfere/break it and some cross-wiring happens.The backlash of the spell is that Zevran can hear Alistair's thoughts.All of his thoughts.Zevran is all set to have a good laugh over this (naturally he hasn't *told* Alistair that he can do this)... except how Alistair can't seem to stop thinking about *him*.I want to see Zevran squirm, blush, and generally feel ...studied under a microscope. The potential for honesty!kink is high here.Bonus for emotional, sexual(slash) *and* true-friendship developments. "





	The Best Policy

 

"Zevran!" Natia's voice is harsh, commanding. "The fucking mage, now!"  
  
He turns, flicking tainted blood from his daggers, and sees. Alistair, wound with dark tendrils, slowly falling to his knees, his helmet spinning away. The emissary, just beyond, both clawed hands held out.  
  
It is a matter of seconds til he is behind the creature, planting both mage-baned blades into its foul flesh. The way that darkspawn skin crackles and shreds will never stop being disturbing. The tendrils vanish as the thing falls dead and Alistair collapses to hands and knees, choking and coughing.  
  
"Are you well?" Zevran puts a hand beneath his arm to support him.  
  
Alistair waves one hand and struggles back to his feet. It is no small task, in the plate and chain he in encased in. He stumbles and falls against Zevran and for a moment his hot, sweating forehead is pressed against Zevran's cheek. A not-unwelcome spike of heat flares in Zevran's gut and he stifles a sigh. Such an upright, up _tight_  man to be so beautiful. The Maker, absent from his throne, surely made him so as a jest.  
  
"Sorry," Alistair slurs.   
  
"No matter, my friend," says Zevran. "No matter. Look, the fight is all but over."  
  
Morrigan shifts smoothly out of her spider form, tossing her head and sneering. "Yes, don't fret yourself, little templar. I'm sure you will be of use next time."  
  
"Morri, stop being such a wretched bitch," says Natia, wrenching her sword out of the corpse of an Alpha. "What was that thing the mage used on him? Never seen it before."  
  
"Emissary," says Alistair, weary. "'s what they're called."  
  
Natia shrugs one shoulder. "I call 'em dead, that's good enough for me."  
  
"Some form of blood magic," says Morrigan, with a sniff. "Mind control or the like, no doubt."  
  
"Eugh," says Alistair. "It was like ... I was a deck of cards and he was shuffling me. Eugh."  
  
"Mind reading?" Morrigan looks disdainful. "How very boring for the poor emissary."  
  
"Seriously, Morri," says Natia, trying to hide the way her lips are twitching. "Give the poor guy a break, he's just been brain-raped."  
  
"Please don't call it that," Alistair moans.  
  
"Perhaps we should return to camp," says Zevran smoothly. "Where Wynne will no doubt have the remedy for any lingering effects."  
  
"Point," says Natia and leads off, Morrigan at her side. She mutters something sotto-voice to Morrigan that makes the taller woman throw back her head and peal laughter. 

"Why do they do that?" Alistair says, plaintively.  
  
"You are a very easy mark," says Zevran. "Do not be offended," he adds, as Alistair turns a surprised face to him. "Your open naivete is part of your charm."  
  
"Who asked you?" Alistair mutters, flushing.  
  
Zevran pats his arm. "Save your endearing blushes for Leliana, perhaps. She is more likely to be receptive."  
  
Alistair stumbles again and Zevran stops talking to concentrate on keeping him upright. He is suddenly, astonishingly weary. "Perhaps some help?" he calls out.  
  
Natia peels away from Morrigan and comes to push her shoulder under Alistair's arm on the other side. She wraps a sturdy arm round his waist and very nearly lifts him from his feet.  
  
"How I do love powerful women," Zevran purrs.  
  
"Not the deadly sex goddess shit again," Natia shoots back with a grin. "That was hard enough to stomach the first time around."  
  
"Wounded," says Zevran, clasping a hand to his chest. "Unto death. Your cruel disdain will be the end of me."  
  
"So long as it's the end of your oily Antivan tongue, as well," Natia snorts with good humor.  
  
"One night," Zevran pleads extravagantly. "One night in your arms and I would be sated, never bother you again."  
  
Natia makes a show of eyeing him up and down. "You'd never survive it," she says.  
  
"Ah, but either way, you are free of my importuning!" Zevran smirks at her.  
  
"For the Maker's sake, will the two of you shut up!"  
  
Zevran blinks at Alistair. He was so limp and pale, it was surprising he had the strength for such an outburst.  
  
"A dagger in the eye would free me ..." Natia begins, ignoring Alistair's interruption.  
  
"Maker's mercy!" It's Wynne, hurrying out of the trees where they've concealed their camp. "What happened?"  
  
"Blood magic, says Morri." Natia pauses, lets Wynne run glowing blue hands over Alistair, who groans softly.   
  
"Get him in his tent," says Wynne. "I think it's just exhaustion from fighting the influence."  
  
They wrestle him into camp, into his tent, and out of his armor. He loses consciousness halfway through, and Zevran keeps the ogling to a minimum. It's so much more fun when Alistair is awake to resent it, after all.  
  
His dreams that night are scattered and strange. Cheese and breasts, mostly, although at one point he dreams of himself, bathing in a lake, sunlight sparkling on the water and in his wet hair. He sees himself turn around and then he smiles at himself and holds out a hand. He wakes hard and wanting in his bedroll, oddly flustered by the whole thing. 

 *

It's a while before Zevran figures out what is going on. At first, it seems only a mild disorder of his thoughts, stray wonderings and speculations that he puts down to the rather longer than usual celibacy necessitated by traveling with the Wardens. He lengthens his training sessions each night, seeking the clarity and calm that the discipline of the knife forms gives him, and while he is engaged so, it seems to work. The minute that he stops however, he is barraged again by emotions and images that are foreign, chaotic and unending, a stream of _hungry-bored-horny-embarrassed_ , as though he was suddenly fifteen again. As though he was suddenly not a Crow.  
  
He worries for most of the space of a day that he is perhaps going mad. And then that evening he sits down next to Alistair, reaches for a mug of tea, and brushes his bare forearm accidentally across the back of Alistair's bare hand.  
  
All the images and feelings abruptly coalesce into a single clear thought, uncomfortable and sexually charged.   
  
_Maker's cock, I wish he wouldn't just **touch**  people that way._  
  
Zevran nearly spills his tea into the fire. There was no mistaking it. Alistair's thought. Alistair's feelings.  
  
He spends the rest of the night testing his discovery. Sitting close to Alistair makes the low, wordless murmur of emotions and images stronger, but only by skin to skin contact can he hear words. By the time Natia sets a watch and sends everyone off to bed, Alistair is glaring at Zevran and complaining loudly about  _certain handsy elves keeping their hands to themselves._    
  
"Zevran, keep your hands to yourself," says Natia patiently.  
  
"I am clumsy tonight, I beg you to forgive me," says Zevran to Alistair, who does not let up on his glare one whit. "Come," says Zevran, "let us have no discord between us, my friend." He offers his hand to the other man.  
  
"Well said," says Natia. "If transparent. Alistair, you don't have to shake his hand."  
  
"Whatever," Alistair mutters and grabs Zevran's hand for a brief second.  
  
_golden hair and skin bet you wouldn't be so mouthy put my cock in it or maybe ass that's how men why do I feel_  
  
It is like a hammerblow between the eyes and Zevran only manages a smile before he turns and makes his way into his tent, away from Alistair and his  _astonishing_  thoughts and more importantly, away from Natia's clever, penetrating gaze. He falls onto his bedroll, desperately hard again.  
  
_He wants me._  
  
_He will never, ever admit it out loud._  
  
"Well and so," he murmurs at the canvas walls. "A game worth playing."

 *

From Denerim to Haven - all the way across the damnable country, again. Zevran is sure that he had seen every inch of mud that Ferelden had to offer, slept in every crofter's haypile, and bivouacked in every stand of trees. He'd traveled less extensively in Antiva, and that had been his home for twenty-four years.  
  
They are heading for Redcliffe, to reprovision, equip for a mountain climb, and, as Natia puts it to Sten and Zevran in a moment when Alistair was off collecting firewood,  _to see if that old bastard is still breathing._  She'd taken against the Arl, for some reason.  
  
Probably it had something to do with Alistair.  _My brother,_  she calls him and means it. Her loyalty is diamond-strong.  
  
Tonight they are holed up in an abandoned farmhouse, bedded down in the main room by the fireplace. It is approaching autumn and Natia throws caution to the winds and lights a fire. "Damned endless windy surface," she mutters as she snuggles into her blankets.  
  
Alistair snorts quietly. "Wait til the snow starts falling."  
  
"What," she says flatly.  
  
"Snow. White frozen water, falls out of the sky?"  
  
She eyes him suspiciously and Zevran feels the wave of amusement and fondness and glee rolling off Alistair like heat out of the fireplace. "Is this another one of your stupid jokes?"  
  
"You've never seen snow?" asks Morrigan.   
  
Natia gives her a look. "I'd never seen the surface until four months ago. I thought snow was, you know, a story."  
  
"Dreadful," says Wynne. "It is dreadful how they keep members of your caste so ignorant."  
  
Natia bristles and Alistair winces and Zevran sighs. Wynne has been with the group longer than he has but her social graces are somewhat lacking. She's kindly but blunt. And terribly nosy. And judgmental.   
  
Her bosom is, however, magnificent.   
  
_protectiveness irritation regret_  It is much easier, now, to separate Alistair's feelings from his own. It is no more difficult to compartmentalize them and set them just slightly aside, like so, than it is to deal with his own. Mental discipline is as important, no, _more_  so, than the physical, after all.   
  
Zevran shifts a little, nudging Natia with his knee. "It does not snow in Antiva," he says. "Except in the highest mountains. Ferelden is a barbaric place."  
  
She nudges him back. "One day when this is all over, you and I can go eat olives, murder all the Crows, and set up like Kings, what do you say?"  
  
"Nothing would please me more," says Zevran. "Unless you were to appear in my bed, of course."  
  
There.  _jealousy_  He steals a glance at Alistair and finds him scowling down at the greave he is repairing. "Let me take that," he says, reaching over and plucking the piece of steel away. He lets his fingers brush against Alistair's, ever so lightly.  
  
_...not his not hers not mine where will i go probably going to die let her dream can't wank in crowded too hot ..._  "I'm going for a walk," says Alistair abruptly. "See if, if, Nug wants some company on watch."  
  
"Here," Natia digs in her pack and comes up with some dried meat. "Give him this, will you?"  
  
"You spoil that dog," says Wynne.  
  
"He's a mabari," says Alistair. "Not a dog."  
  
"He is a warrior," says Sten. It's rare to get anything out of Sten, let alone for him to join a conversation, and they all watch him for a moment, in case he says anything else.  
  
"Well," says Alistair, when it becomes clear that's all they are getting. He leaves, somewhat stiffly.  
  
"Zev, you're second watch," says Natia and lays down. She's snoring in short order, louder even than Sten.   
  
Zevran waits til they are all asleep and then goes out the window. 

He finds them easily, man and dog sitting companionably together at the edge of the small farmyard. Nug lifts his head and wags his tail as Zevran slides up out of the dark. Alistair, thus forewarned, doesn't start when Zevran sits down next to him on the low stone wall.  
  
"What do you want?" he asks instead.  _frustration resentment worry shame_  
  
"Nothing," says Zevran. "You seemed ... ah, unsettled when you left the fire."  _Probably going to die_  was so very out of character for Alistair, usually a beacon of bad jokes and cheerful, self-effacing optimism.  
  
"Ah, it's just ..." Alistair throws him a suspicious look. "Wait, why should I tell you anything? Natia might have fallen for your 'wait, no, I want to be your friend, not stick a knife in your kidney' act, but I still have my eye on you." He leveled a thick forefinger at Zevran for emphasis.  
  
"Prudent," agreed Zevran. "Not needed, but prudent."  
  
"That's me," says Alistair. "Prudent."  
  
_resentment_  is still there, although  _frustration_  and  _worry_  are subsiding.  _shame_  is shading into  _embarrassment_  rather rapidly. Zevran shifts a little on the wall, brushing his boot casually against Alistair's, and feels  _embarrassment_  rise like a river in flood, tinged with  _arousal._  "Natia is not truly making plans with me," he says.  
  
"I know that!" Alistair snaps irritably. "Maker's breath. Not that I care. I mean, of course I care, she's way too good for you, obviously. But I don't - we aren't ... she's my Sister." He laughs a little, a humorless chuckle. "By blood, even."  
  
Images swell out of the morass, a cup, a man with a dark beard and dark eyes, Natia's pale, unconscious face.  
  
This is getting confusing and off track very quickly. Zevran shakes himself a little. "You do not have plans? For after?"  
  
"After," says Alistair. "If we even get so far as an 'after.'" He rubs at the back of his neck. "No. Natia talks about rebuilding the Wardens, that's enough of a plan for me." He grins suddenly,  _affection warmth admiration._  "She'll do it, too, if we live long enough. She's a mabari when she's got an idea, straight ahead and take no prisoners. No wonder Nug took to her."  
  
"I did not think you were so pessimistic about our chances." It is not a nice thought, that the Grey Wardens were not as confident as they seemed.  
  
"Eh," says Alistair. "It's only a horde of hideous raving monsters led by a god, after all." He slants Zevran a look. "So it's 'our' chances, is it?"  
  
"I swore a vow," says Zevran.   
  
"Like the one you swore to the Crows?"  
  
"Actually, no. They require no vows. Only the clear understanding of the cost of failure."  
  
_sympathy_  There and then gone again, like the flash of a firefly.   
  
"Huh," says Alistair. "Well, the Grey Wardens aren't as easy to walk away from. Once a Warden, always a Warden." The cup again, heavy and silver, filled with something dark and viscous...  
  
Alistair stands. "I should get some sleep," he says. "I've got third watch."  
  
"Yes," says Zevran. "I have second."  
  
Nug butts his head against Zevran's knee and Alistair looks down at him bemusedly.   
  
"The dog likes me," says Zevran. "Perhaps I am not so terrible?"  
  
"Mabari," Alistair corrects absently and offers Zevran a hand up.  
  
_...mabari smarts must count for Natia's instincts he smells like spices how marching i smell like socks maker why i'm such a just go to bed stop thinking brave to leave he's ..._  
  
They walk back to the farmhouse in silence.

 *

Stage one of a contract: gather information. The habits, patterns, tastes and daily life of the target.  
  
Daily life was easy, of course, given that they spent every waking hour in one another's company. Habits and patterns, also not particularly challenging. Alistair is a relatively simple man, all templar discipline and Warden dedication. His tastes, however, are not all on the surface.  
  
Cheese, of course. He keeps hair and nails clean and neat. Shaves every day. His gear is maintained and organized with military precision, although his socks are, frankly, disgusting. He sneaks the dog treats. He always knows where Natia is, eerily so. The antipathy between him and Morrigan is real and mutual and entirely, astonishingly, devoid of sexual tension. He sleeps poorly, tossing and turning and muttering.   
  
Zevran glues himself to Alistair's side, softens the sharp edges of his tongue, and begins the slow delicate process of building trust. It is not easy, of course, given their introduction, but Alistair is like every other target that Zevran has ever set in his sights, susceptible to the same wiles.  
  
"Tell me," says Zevran, one morning, as they hike along the road in bright autumn sunshine, "how is it that you took the templar training, but ended up in the Wardens? I had thought that the order does not easily let go those to whom it has entrusted its secrets."   
  
"Duncan recruited me," says Alistair.  _suspicion wariness interest_  
  
"Ah, so you were torn away from the bosom of the Chantry," says Zevran.  
  
"Hardly!" Alistair snorts.  _amusement, nostalgia_  "No, I was desperate to go. They didn't want to let me. Duncan had to invoke the Right of Conscription and, even then, I'm pretty sure that if it hadn't been an open tourney the Reverend Mother probably would have found a way to keep me."  
  
"A tourney?" asks Zevran. "How very bold and romantic. You carried the day and, covered in glory, won the regard of the Warden Commander?"  
  
Alistair grins a little. "I was kicked from one end of the yard to the other, actually. I think it was the way I kept getting up again that caught his attention."  _sorrow, guilt_  The grin fades. "I owed him everything. I'd be a lyrium swilling, tower-mired bigot in a skirt by now if it weren't for Duncan."  _grief_ , so strongly that Zevran is surprised that Alistair remains upright, his stride steady.   
  
"You miss him very much," Zevran ventures.  
  
"I ... yes." Alistair shakes himself a little.  _determination, embarrassment_  "Did you have ... I mean, how does one become a Crow?"  
  
"Recruitment," says Zevran, still a little off balance by the waves of emotion pouring off Alistair. The man feels so very  _strongly_  about everything. "Not quite the same, of course. A man came one day and bought all the children between the ages of seven and twelve. I never did find out his name."  
  
_consternation, horror_  
  
"Wait, the Crows  _bought_  you? When you were a child?"  
  
"It is the traditional way," says Zevran. How to slant this? For sympathy? To show his resilience and strength? "Certainly I was provided a much better education and lifestyle than I could have aspired to at the brothel. And, in truth, I cannot complain much about life within the Crows. It is leaving that carries ... complications."  
  
"Huh," says Alistair. His emotions are tangled and diffuse. Edging closer does not help to make sense of the tangle.   
  
Zevran reaches out and slaps the back of Alistair's neck.  
  
_did he say brothel blessed knew the Arl cared Teagan wonder if Zev fathers are always gone say something clever and understanding i am such a berk_  
  
"Ow!" Alistair glares at him.  
  
"Stinging fly," says Zevran.  
  
"Next time let it sting me," Alistair complains, rubbing his neck.   
  
"I promise nothing," says Zevran.  
  
"Are you bickering?" calls Natia. "I'll come back there if I have to, don't think I won't."   
  
"No!" They call it out as one and then Alistair shoots him a sideways look and smirks a little.  
  
Zevran smiles back, holding his gaze, and needs no uncanny mental link to read the sudden colour in Alistair's cheeks and the abrupt drop of his eyes.

 *

Stage Two: Find the holes in the target's life, those places and times where they are most vulnerable.  
  
Zevran contemplates the usual approaches - catching Alistair bathing, sidling up to him while on watch, accompanying him to gather firewood - and discards them. For all Alistair's carnal interest, he is not the sort to seize a casual tumble.   
  
And truly, for all Alistair's obvious physical loneliness, the current of his emotions and the brief glimpses of his thoughts points to a much deeper lack, one that only registers visibly in the way he looks to Natia.   
  
"Cheeeeese?" she says as they tramp down the road. A brief tangle with bandits has put her in one of her irrepressibly bizarre moods. "Cheeeeeeeeeese," she answers herself. "Cheese cheese cheese cheese?"  
  
"Stop it," says Alistair, laughing. "You jerk!"  
  
"Cheese!" she says triumphantly, stabbing a finger in the air. "Cheese."  
  
"I think about other things!" Alistair says, grabbing her finger. "I think about lots of things!"  
  
"Cheese," she explains to him patiently. "Cheese chee ... augh!"  
  
Alistair scoops her up abruptly and holds her upside down by her ankles. A dagger drops out of its sheath to the road. "Brat!"  
  
She's laughing now, hysterically. "Ch-cheese!"  
  
He starts shaking her, side to side. Bits of coin, rings and potions and other odds and ends are rattled loose and bounce on the ground. "You going to stop? Huh? You going to stop saying 'cheese?'"  
  
"Chee-okay, okay! I yield! Muscle bound fucker!"  
  
He sets her gently on the ground,  _triumph joy love_  radiating off him strongly enough to make Zevran a little dizzy.  
  
Leliana laughs musically. "I think, when I make my ballad, I may leave this part out," she teases.  
  
"Put it in," Natia says, collecting her fallen belongings. "Tell about how he can only beat me when he cheats."  
  
"Tell about how crazy she is," says Alistair. "Craaaaaaaazy. Crazy? Crazy."  
  
Sten looks on in stoic disgust as they chase one another back and forth across the road. Morrigan is scouting ahead as a crow, or no doubt she would have joined him, less stoically. Wynne tries but cannot hide the little smile that goes on creeping onto her face.  
  
And Zevran files it all away, carefully. The hole in Alistair's life is called  _family_.

 *

Stage Three: Slip through a hole, choose your time, and then strike.  
  
Family. It sets Zevran back on his heels, makes him rethink his whole scheme. Bedding Alistair seems less and less like a game and more like something that cannot possibly end well. And while that has not always stopped him in the past, here he was nowhere to run.  
  
On the other hand ... he glances across camp to where Alistair is hewing wood, clad only in his breeches and boots. Maker's cock, he's a specimen, fully grown but still young, glowing with health and vigor and exertion ...  
  
"Gonna tell me what the fuck's going on?"  
  
He suppresses the urge to start or yelp with only the greatest of effort and turns to Natia, who is standing behind him with her hands on her hips. Her face, usually cheerful, is dead serious.   
  
"My dear warden ..."  
  
"Shut it, Zev. I know what you're doing. And I want you. To stop."  
  
He abandons pretense. "He's a man grown, dear Warden. Am I to bemoan your refusal forever? Can I not follow my ... interest elsewhere?"  
  
Her eyes narrow. "What are you going to do after you get in his pants? Move on to Leliana? To Morrigan?"  
  
"You are discounting the allure of Wynne's magnificent bosom," says Zevran.  
  
"I'm not having it," says Natia. "I'm not telling you not to fuck him. The Stone knows he could use a good tumble. I'm just telling you that if you hurt him, I'm personally going to separate you from your favorite weapon." She glances meaningfully downward.  
  
"Would he be pleased to hear you defend him so?" Zevran asks her.  
  
Her nostrils flare. "Seduce him, then. If you can, which, I gotta say, I wouldn't put money on. But don't you lie to him. Don't make him promises you aren't going to keep and don't tell him you love him. We clear?"  
  
"Perfectly," says Zevran.  
  
She leans back a little. "I like you, Zev, but I know your type. I spent my whole life keeping guys like you away from my sister's skirts. Alistair's like a puppy and I mean to keep the world from kicking him as long as possible."  
  
Zevran snorts mirthlessly. "Your chances are better with the Blight, I think."  
  
She grins then, fiercely. "Ain't you heard? Dusters don't know when to give up."  
  
She leaves and Zevran sits down on a log by the fire. Crow instructors, princes and regents, no one he'd ever met was so effortlessly intimidating as this one short, dwarven woman barely past her majority.  
  
The alluring scent of clean male sweat and tree sap sweeps over him and then Alistair thumps down on the ground nearby. "What was  _that_  about?" he asks, tilting his head in Natia's direction.  _curiosity, good cheer_  
  
"She ... was concerned about how the group is fitting together."  
  
"She was giving you an earful, looked like," says Alistair, popping the stopper on a water bottle. He drinks three swallows and then tips the rest over his head. "Nuhhh. Walk all day in plate and then spend half an hour chopping wood. I'm just glad we're coming out of summer."  
  
Zevran regards him in blinking disbelief. Alistair sits there, water glistening in his short hair and along the slopes of his impressively muscled torso, discussing the weather.  _He genuinely has no idea how attractive he is._    
  
"Listen," says Alistair. "Don't let her step on you too hard."  _commiseration, fondness, concern_  "She's got this real deep 'take-care-of-it' kind of thing going on and she can be a bit tactless. I know she values you." Alistair fists Zevran gently in the shoulder.  
  
_judged him too he can be no one is perfect all that flirting underneath he must be I would nice when he wants to_

  
It is unbearable. Zevran stands abruptly. "Excuse me," he says. "I wish to ... take a walk."

 *

There is no getting away from it. All day long as they walk  _warmth caring regard_ , radiating from Alistair like a furnace. And suddenly the cursed man has become free with his hands, clapping Zevran on the back, poking him in the arm, playful light punches to the knee or jaw, each one accompanied by those bright flashes of thought.  
  
_what's wrong all grim don't stop smiling Maker knows I_  
  
_that kick his thigh all golden tattoos everywhere? sex should **mean**  never knew men could_  
  
_even when he smiles sad underneath wish I knew Zevran just let someone care about_  
  
Unendurable. Inescapable.  
  
At night is is worse, because Alistair's dreams have begun to feature Zevran rather more frequently. Some are simple, lusty scenarios, Zevran yielding or aggressive, moaning or laughing or shouting. Others are not so direct. Zevran spends a day fighting off the memory of his own fingers along his cheekbones, bitter tears and sweet kisses that chased them away.  
  
Alistair is falling in love.  
  
Zevran curses himself for ten kinds of fool.   
  
That night as they gather for toasted bread and cheese at the fire, Zevran waits for Alistair to sit before finding a place on the other side, in between Leliana and the Sten.  _disappointment_  He ignores Alistair's little looks, eats quickly, and volunteers for first watch.   
  
"I'll take second," says Alistair, a little too quickly.  
  
Leliana leans over. "You are cruel," she murmurs into his ear. "Stop teasing the poor boy."  
  
"Sweet bard," says Zevran. "I assure you ..."  
  
_jealousyhurtangershame_  
  
Like a spike in the head, so strong that Zevran stumbles over his words and casts a startled glance across the fire. Alistair stands, awkwardly, and makes for his tent.  
  
Zevran suppresses the urge to leap to his feet and follow. Natia is glaring at him, Morrigan snorts derisively. Leliana hides a smile. Zevran feels a wave of affection for the Qunari, suddenly, the only one in their company who does not feel it is his duty to comment on things that were really none of his affair.  
  
"Bed," says Natia, sharply.   
  
The watch is quiet and uneventful, other than Natia shoving Nug out of her tent a few minutes after the mabari had wriggled his way in. "Fart at the elf, why don't you," is her irritable remark and the downcast dog mooches over to where Zevran stands. Zevran shifts upwind.  
  
The moon ispeeking over the trees when Alistair emerges from his tent, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Zevran steps out of the shadows and Alistair comes over. His shoulders are tense and his mouth set. "You can get off then," he says.  _hurt frustration resignation_  
  
"Alistair," says Zevran. "Have I done something to ..."  
  
_shame_  It is heartrending how often Alistair's emotions boil themselves down to that one.  
  
"No, I ... no." Alistair lifts his chin and grins a little. "I'm just an idiot, that's all. Don't act all surprised, I'm sure that you picked up on it before now."  
  
"I am not wooing Leliana." The words are out before he can stop them. They hang in the air. He feels as if he has been frozen, he cannot move. _Laugh,_  he tells himself desperately.  _Joke. Do something!_  
  
"Oh." Alistair's voice is hardly more than a whisper. He bites his lip, steps closer.  _hope joy fear exhilaration_  
  
Zevran is overwhelmed, cannot speak.  
  
Alistair reaches out, cups Zevran's jaw with both hands, and kisses him.

 _oh Maker am I doing this right? His lips are so soft oh sweet Andraste he smells so amazing his skin his **mouth**  I am kissing Zevran please please don't let this be a mistake _  
  
A dual assault, one physical, one mental. No, he is assailed on three fields, submerged and cradled in the crazed waves of  _fearful joyous WANTING_  that Alistair is putting out. He yields. How can he do anything less? He opens his mouth and his arms and pulls Alistair to him, overcome.  
  
_yesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyes_  
  
The  _fear_  vanishes. Alistair makes a noise, low and needy, and Zevran echoes him, helpless. He clutches desperately for some fragments of technique, skill, but everything is buried in the onslaught of  _NEEDWANT_. Alistair's thoughts have become a jumble of images and word fragments.  
  
And then, impossibly, Alistair pulls away, his chest heaving, his eyes glazed. His hands drop to Zevran's mercifully clad shoulders. "I - wow," he says. "Zevran. I hope that wasn't too forward - what am I saying? Maker."  
  
Zevran's whole body still throbs with the aftermath of Alistair's astonishing lust. "Were it up to me," he says, his voice rough, "we would even now be in your tent."  
  
Alistair gives a strained laugh.  _NERVOUS WANT_  "No no no. Not ready for that. I - I'm hardly ready for  _this_. But I couldn't wait. I wanted to know."   
  
Zevran curls his hands into fists, drives his fingernails into his palms. What is he doing, what is he  _doing_? Playing at love with this impressionable virgin. "I should retire," he says, his voice under control again.   
  
"Oh. Right." Alistair takes his hands away, steps back.  _hope nervous WANT_  and then, like a cold knife in the belly,  _fearhorrorREGRET_.  
  
"No," says Zevran. "No, do not ..." He chokes on the words, scrambling frantically for some semblance of wit and coherence. He wants, fervently, to kiss Alistair again and does not know if it is even his own wanting. It is like going mad. Madness stands across from him, confusion and hope in its warm brown eyes.   
  
"Zev," says Alistair, catches hold of his arm.  
  
_is he alright Maker I am the worst person ever just being nice sleep with me just to make me feel better but the way he kissed what do i know such an idiot poor Zev kindsweetgenerousfunny_  
  
"Please," says Zevran and can hardly hear his own voice. "Please."  
  
Alistair releases him. Those brown eyes are intent on him, kiss-swollen mouth parted, brow creased. "What's wrong? Zev?"  
  
"I -" He cannot fake illness, or weariness. He cannot fake anything, and it is terrifying. "I need some time."  
  
"Oh." Alistair's face clears like a summer sky. "I'm all for that. Time, I mean. The taking of it. I - huh, I wouldn't have thought that I could move too fast for you. I didn't mean that. You can move whatever speed you want. Um. Not saying that you're ... I will stop talking now." He is grinning and shedding  _relief_  in little bursts.  
  
"I will retire, then," says Zevran and retreats gracelessly, the inside of his head a screaming chaos.

 *

He is yet awake when Alistair returns from his watch. He holds himself still, hearing Alistair exchange a few words with Leliana. Her voice lilts quietly upward in a question. Alistair doesn't reply. She laughs kindly and murmurs something else before they part.  
  
Zevran stares at the peak of his tent, sturdy canvas and rope, stained and carefully patched. He fears his dreams. More accurately, he fears Alistair's dreams. He fears the day and the road and Alistair's presence and his own eroding self-control.  
  
The next evening they should reach Redcliffe. Perhaps with stone walls between them some of this might be ... mitigated. In the meantime, a sleepless night will not impact him too terribly. No more so than a night filled with an endless parade of foolishly romantic garbage.  
  
He climbs out of his blankets and begins to practice floor drills.  
  
"You look a bit shitty," says Natia the next morning. She and Sten are the only two awake in the dewy pre-dawn as Zevran exits his tent. Sten stirs a pot of oatmeal and Natia is picking prickles and ticks out of Nug's thick coat.   
  
"I did not sleep well, dear Warden," says Zevran. His mind is much more settled, however. Alistair still snores away in his tent and whatever emotions he is experiencing in dreams, they are a feeble buzz, easy to ignore.  
  
"Huh," says Natia. She shoots him a narrow, sideways glance.  
  
"Send me ahead to scout today," he says.   
  
She raises her eyebrows and flicks a tick into the fire, where it pops wetly. "Alright. Prolly wise."  
  
He has his gear packed and stowed in the Feddic's wagon before the oatmeal is ready and manages to finish eating before Alistair pokes his head out, though it is a near thing. He is trotting away down the road when he hears that cheerful, sleepy voice.  
  
"Scouting? But ..."  _disappoint_ _ment_  
  
And then blessed silence in his head. 

He spends the whole day out ahead of the party, slipping through the trees to either side of the road, leaving marks for Leliana and Natia, alone in his thoughts for the first time in nearly three weeks.  
  
They feel flat and empty. The taste of his bread and cheese at noon is muted. He is an automaton, a golem of flesh, without colour or verve. Is this how he felt before? He cannot remember.   
  
He cannot stop thinking about Alistair.  
  
He waits for the party at the top of the road down into Redcliffe, sitting in the grass and flipping his daggers. He feels Alistair before he sees him,  _tired hungry nervous_. It spikes abruptly into  _JOYFEAREMBARASSMENT_  and Zevran sighs. Spotted.   
  
"Good even, dear Warden," says Zevran, rising to his feet as the lot of them trail up behind Natia and Alistair. "All seems well below."  
  
"That'll be a first," she mutters and stretches. "Let's keep moving, I want a drink and a bed."  
  
Alistair is staring at Zevran out of the corners of his eyes.   
  
_Gods old and new_ , Zevran thinks. He is sure that all the excitement and nerves and wanting he is feeling is Alistair's. Well, perhaps not the want.   
  
Leliana smirks at his as she passes.  
  
" _Brasca_ ," he mutters.  
  
Teaghan welcomes them graciously, promises supplies, gives them all rooms. Zevran waits, fatalistically, and indeed, gets put across the hall from Alistair. So be it. He is finished fighting.  
  
He sits on his bed patiently until he is sure that everyone has found their beds and then he knocks on Alistair's door. When Alistair opens it, face lighting with surprised delight, he pushes the other man into the room, closes the door behind him, and pulls Alistair into a kiss.  
  
_oh Maker oh shit what I uh yesyesyes but what does he oh tongue hands wow oh uh WOW WAIT WHOA_  
  
Alistair breaks away, panting and disheveled and wild eyed.  _fear_  and  _wanting_  battle one another. "What happened to time? And taking it? And, and ..."  
  
"I found a day with my thoughts sufficient," said Zevran, reaching out. He wants to drown, he wants to stop thinking, but Alistair backs away again.  
  
"I - this is - really fast for me and, uh ... please stop following me around the room? Zevran?"  
  
Zevran stops. "Do you not want this?" he asks, as if he can't  _taste_  Alistair's need in exquisite exactitude.  
  
"I'm not ready for this," said Alistair. "That - I guess that makes me a bit boring or, or foolish, but I'm not. I'm sorry?"  
  
Zevran sits down on the floor, runs his hands into his hair and tries desperately not to scream.  
  
"Maker..." says Alistair. He comes and squats next to Zevran. "What's wrong?"  _worry regret love_  
  
_love_  
  
"You will excuse my intrusion, I hope," says Zevran. "I do not wish to ask anything of you that you do not wish to give." He fists his hands harder for a moment. "No, that is a lie. I want to throw you to the floor and ravish you until you cannot breathe. But I will not do so. I will leave." He shoots to his feet.  
  
Alistair gapes at him from the floor. "You don't have to go," he says weakly. "We could just ... talk?"  
  
"No," says Zevran.  
  
"But you ...I ..."  _confusion, anger, hurt_  "You just wanted to bed me."  
  
He forces it out. "Yes."  
  
Alistair stares at him a moment. "Liar."  
  
Zevran makes a sound. Alistair reaches out and he shies away. He does not want to know what Alistair is thinking in this moment. Alistair gets up and now it is Zevran who retreats across the room and Alistair who follows. His back bumps against the post of the bed and Alistair touches his arm, very lightly. He shivers.  
  
"You're acting like a crazy person," Alistair says.   
  
"Only because you make me so," Zevran says and only when Alistair's eyes widen does he realize that Alistair had not said it aloud.

 _did he just say what is going on blood magic Morrigan just a trick he could have killed me already_  "What?" Alistair's lips move on the last word.  
  
"Let me go," says Zevran.  
  
Alistair's lips tighten and his grip on Zevran's arm tightens.  _suspicion fear concern_  The feel of fingers closing on him stills his breath, slows his heart. This at least he can still deal with. A quick step, he seizes and twists Alistair's smallest finger and then he is free, retreating toward the door.  
  
"Ow!" Alistair shakes out his hand. "Zevran, seriously, what in the Maker's name is going on?"   
  
"Nothing," says Zevran. There is no way to salvage this. "I cannot do this. I did not think you would become so ... attached. I am sorry, truly, but I cannot give you what you want."  
  
Alistair's face stills for a long moment and then his eyes fall. "Oh."  _shock hurt SHAMESHAMESHAME_    
  
Zevran turns, rigid as a golem, opens the door, and walks out.

*  
  
He sleeps in the stables. He dreams of killing, and the smell of Antiva City, and of Rinna. He wakes with tears on his cheeks to see Natia squatting by the edge of his bed of hay, chewing thoughtfully on the end of a braid.  
  
"Hi," she says.  
  
"Good morning to you," he says, sitting up. "Are you here to sever my manhood, then?"  
  
"Nope." She spits out the braid and cocks her head to one side. "Ali's worried about you."  
  
" _Brasca,_ " he mutters.  
  
"So am I."  
  
"Dear Warden ..."  
  
"So you're going to tell me what's going on."  
  
"I assure you ..."  
  
"Or I'm going to have Teaghan chain you in the dungeon."  
  
"That would be well within your ..."  
  
"And then I'll tickle you until you give in."  
  
"If you think that's -" He stops and looks up at her.  
  
She grins.   
  
"Is that the usual form of torture in Orzimmar?" he asks her, his own mouth twitching.  
  
"Very effective," she assures him. "I'm a master of the art. Come on, Zev. Spill it. You swore to obey me, remember?"  
  
"Cruel mistress," he parries, weakly.  
  
"Shut up and talk."  
  
"You realize of course that I cannot do both at ..."  
  
"Zevran."  
  
As he did on the road when they'd first met, as he has always done with this woman, he surrenders.

 *

After he finishes talking, there is a long silence. He waits, still and calm, wondering if these are his last moments of life. He knows Natia well enough now to know that there is a deep streak of ruthlessness in her that it is often tempered only by Alistair's kinder nature.   
  
At last, she speaks.  
  
"I am very angry with you right now," she says evenly.   
  
"I have no doubt."  
  
"Setting aside the issue of Ali's privacy, you concealed the fact that you and he are under some kind of spell. You didn't think that I needed to know that? You don't even know what it's actually doing to you."  
  
"It's driving me insane," he says.  
  
She squints at him. "Nope," she says. "That's just Ali." She's smirking a bit now. "Didn't know what you were getting into, did you? He's not like me and you. He's a good person. He makes you remember what it's like to live that way, think that way. Back before you decided that you couldn't afford it, that it was weakness. And he's not weak. And it makes you think, what else am I wrong about? And he makes you laugh, and he makes you believe that you can maybe get some of it back, the stuff you killed and buried and tried to forget."   
  
He makes an attempt at a laugh but it comes out hoarse and strange.  
  
She stands. "Alright. First. You will apologize to Ali."  
  
"You mean for me to confess?" He imagines the look on Alistair's face, and his heart sinks.  
  
"Yep," she says.   
  
Zevran takes a deep breath. "As you command."  
  
"Second, you are not to touch him. Ever again. Unless someone's life depends on it."  
  
Protests rise to his lips and he clamps his teeth together, trapping them inside. It would surely be no hardship not to succumb again to that waterfall of self doubt and naive cheer and simple, good, caring. " _Brasca_ ," he mutters.  
  
"Or unless," she finishes, "he invites you to."  
  
This time his laugh is real and ringing, although bitter. "I rather think, my dear Warden, that such an event is slightly less likely than him inviting the Archdemon to dance the Remigold."  
  
"You might be surprised," says Natia. "Would there be pretty dresses involved?"  
  
There is a story there he would like to hear, but she is beckoning him up. He follows her out of the stables and across the courtyard to the keep.  
  
"One last thing," she says, as they pause outside Alistair's door. "I like you, Zevran. If I didn't you'd be dead on that stable floor. But if Ali wants you gone, I expect to never see your face again." She isn't standing particularly close, she isn't armed beyond a belt knife, but Zevran makes very sure to keep his hands still and his shoulders relaxed.  
  
"As you say, Warden," he says.  
  
She squints at him again, then nods and gestures at the door.  
  
He knocks.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"It is I," he says. "May I enter?"  
  
A long pause.  
  
"Alright."  
  
He goes in. 

Alistair is polishing his armor, sitting crosslegged on the floor surrounded by bits of steel and rags and a large tin of polish. The room smells of polish and metal and him, a hint of sweat, a tinge of the harsh soap they all use in camp. He doesn't look up as Zevran comes in.  
  
"I guess Natia spoke to you," he says.  _resigned embarrassed rueful amusment_  
  
"She did." Zevran closes the door behind him. His first kill was scarcely more difficult than this. "She, ah, made it clear to me that I was to come and ... apologize."  
  
"Maker," Alistair mutters.   
  
"I have not been honest," Zevran drags the words out of himself, like lead weights.  
  
"Huh," says Alistair. "There's a revelation."  _resentment hurt_  
  
"Yes, well. It is not in my nature to, to, expose myself in such a fashion."  
  
"I exposed myself to you just fine," says Alistair, pauses, and then drops the polishing cloth to clap a hand over his eyes. "I really just said that, didn't I?"  _amusement exasperation embarrassment_  
  
"I - you - do you remember the emissary, the one who had you enthralled?"  
  
Alistair lowers his hand and looks quizzically at Zevran. "What does that have to do with ..."  
  
"Since - that incident, I have had - I have been able to ..."  _Gods old and new, just say it._  "I can sense your feelings. And when we are skin to skin, I can hear your thoughts."  
  
There is a short silence. Alistair's emotions are a blended swirl that Zevran cannot make sense of, though  _confusion_  is certainly predominant.  
  
"You can - wait, skin to skin? So, when,"  _horror embarrassment_  "when we kissed, you ..."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And right now, you can tell how I'm feeling."  
  
"Yes."   
  
_EMBARRASSMENT_  so strongly that Zevran winces, followed abruptly by  _anger._  
  
"You - the whole time, while you were talking to me and asking me ... all the touching in camp ...  _why?_ "  
  
"Because I am a Crow," Zevran says. "It was an advantage I could not pass by, regardless of whether or not I sought your life."  
  
_HURT FURY SHAME_  
  
Zevran sets his jaw, braces himself for the blow he is sure is coming but Alistair only sits on the floor, staring at him.  
  
"And then what?"  
  
"Your pardon?"  
  
"There you were, had me tied around your finger, could have ... Maker, I was almost ready to -" He fists his hands on his thighs. "Did you just decide I wasn't worth it? Get a look inside my head and figure out that I really am just an idiot?"  
  
"No," says Zevran, taking a step away from the door, hand out, before remembering Natia's interdiction. He stops, drops the hand. "No. You are not an idiot, my friend."  
  
"I'm not your friend," says Alistair.  _hurt loss bitterness_  "Am I? I'm just another mark."  
  
"That is not true," says Zevran, knowing it's hopeless.  
  
Alistair gets to his feet in one smooth, quick motion and strides purposefully toward Zevran, who holds his ground. He lifts a hand, clenches it into a fist.   
  
Then unfolds it and pokes Zevran's exposed clavicle with one finger.  
  
"Get out."  
_get out_  
  
Zevran goes.

 *

They are back on the road the next morning, furred and booted and appropriately geared. Zevran does his best to keep his distance from Alistair, but the constant low thrum of _anger_ and _hurt_  and, worst of all, familiar and acrid, _shame_ , dog him all day. He looks back once to see Alistair with head down, walking beside Leliana, who shoots Zevran a look that he finds difficult to interpret. There is accusation there, but also a kind of rueful sympathy.  
  
Well. There are no secrets in a group this size, to be sure. He only hopes that the inevitable teasing will not chafe Alistair too much.  
  
But no one says a thing at camp that night, beyond the necessary communication about watches and setting the tents and gathering wood. Leliana brings out a lute when the meal is done, and plays and sings until Natia sends them all off to bed. Alistair does not look Zevran's way once. Natia sends several speculative looks his way, though.   
  
On the march again the next day, she fell in beside him, gnawing the inside of her cheek the way she did when she was strategizing. "You can't stop hearing him, can you?" she asked.  
  
"I - no."   
  
"What's he feeling right now?"  
  
"He's ..." Zevran trailed off, uncomfortable. "Are you ordering me to tell you, my Warden?"  
  
She gives him an unreadable look. "Do I need to make it one?" 

He is intensely aware of Alistair, some fifteen yards ahead, and his tangled misery. "I ... think that I will hold my tongue," he says. 

"Good," she says blandly.

"That was a test," says Zevran.

She pats him on the arm, a little too hard to call friendly. "You passed. I am worried about him, though."  
  
"You've silenced the others," said Zevran.  
  
"Of course," she said. "Ali can take some shots to his pride but this is different. I wouldn't let them mock him about being beaten and assaulted, either."  
  
Zevran winced.  
  
"Oh, that hurts, does it?" asked Natia. "Well. I told them to leave you alone, too."  
  
He stiffened slightly. "I do not need your pity, or your protection," he began.  
  
"Bullshit," she said. "That's why you're here, isn't it? Hiding from the Crows behind my skirts?"  
  
He controlled himself, relaxed his face, but could not manage his usual easy grin. "You have sharpened your tongue, I see."  
  
"You hurt him, Zev," she said. "After I told you not to. And," she jabbed a short, blunt finger at him, "you didn't apologize."  
  
He opened his mouth to protest and then shut it again, replaying that agonizing conversation over again in his head. He hadn't.  
  
"Huh," she said. "Yeah."  
  
"I am sorry," he said.  
  
"Wrong person," she said. "For a man with such a clever tongue, Zev, you sure are slow."  
  
"You think that I should approach him again?" he asked, with sinking heart.  
  
"Uh, yes," she said, as though speaking to a particularly slow child.  
  
"He will not wish to speak to me," said Zevran.  
  
"Then you tell him that if he ever wants to hear it, he should ask you."  
  
"I am to wait upon his pleasure to make this apology?" he asked, resentment creeping in.  
  
"Zev," she said, patiently. "You're the one who fucked up."  
  
To which he had no reply at all.

 *

He had thought that approaching Alistair in his room had been difficult. It had been a stroll on a sunny boulevard compared to walking up to him in camp. As Zevran gets closer, the the waves of  _anger resentment hurt confusion_  grow stronger, and Alistair hunches further over his armor, rubbing furiously at an already gleaming spot.  
  
"Alistair," says Zevran, hesitantly.  
  
"What." Flat and uncompromising.  
  
"I have come to, to tell you that I - "  
  
"Go away."  
  
"As you wish." Relief spills over him, shameful and freeing. Then he remembers the rest of Natia's advice. "If you ever wish me to tell you -"  
  
Alistair looks up at him, mouth set in a straight line, eyes direct and slightly reddened. "I don't much care what you have to tell me," he says. "I've learned my lesson, thanks very much."  
  
Zevran persists. "But should you change your mind, I will, ah, be here."  
  
"Go tell Natia that she needs to stop trying to hold my hand," says Alistair and bends back over his pauldron again.  
  
Alistair spends a lot of time with Leliana the next day, their heads bent together, her melodic laugh floating out occasionally. Alistair's mood lightens as they walk, though the underlying refrain is still there. Zevran attempts to be glad about this.   
  
They are in the foothills of the Frostbacks when Alistair follows him out to the stream, folds his arms and looks at Zevarn expectantly.  _anger hurt nerves anticipation_    
  
"Yes, my - Alistair?"  
  
"I've changed my mind," says Alistair.  
  
Zevran quirks an eyebrow at him.  
  
"You can apologize now," says Alistair.   
  
"Ah." Zevran wets his bottom lip, tries to think. "I am sorry."  
  
_irritation hurt amusement_  Amusement?  
  
"You're terrible at this."  
  
"I am sorry, truly. I - at times, I - if you train a dog to bite, you cannot be surprised when it sinks its fangs into your arm. My - my judgement was flawed." He cannot look at Alistair anymore, cannot dismiss the memory of long dark hair and blood on a stone floor. It is true. He is a blade without a hilt, he does not know how not to cut.  
  
"Crap," says Alistair.  
  
Zevran looks up, surprised.  
  
"You're not a dog," says Alistair.  _anger anger_    
  
Zevran feels a spark of his own anger rising up. "What do you want of me?" he snaps.  
  
"Figure it out," said Alistair and turns to go.  
  
Without thinking, Zevran reaches out to grab his arm.   
  
_excuses all the time no dog what kind of he never not my problem why can't he just want to kiss him again Maker I'm such a_  
  
Alistair jerks away, draws back a fist, and punches Zevran in the mouth. 

Zevran staggers backwards. For a moment his vision is white and his ears rings and when he comes back to himself, he is crouched with daggers out, the taste of blood in his mouth, the hot sting of adrenaline surging in his veins.  
  
Alistair only looks at him, flexing his hand.  _satisfaction shame anger concern_  A violent stew of emotion.  
  
"You hit like a mule kicks," says Zevran. He puts away his knives, slowly.  
  
"You make me so angry," says Alistair. "But you know that already, don't you."  
  
"I wish I did not," says Zevran.  
  
"Huh," says Alistair. "Well, it's only fair."  _amusement_ , grim and stark. "I have to live with it, why shouldn't you?"  
  
"You argue like a magistrate," says Zevran.  
  
"I'm not sorry I hit you," says Alistair.   
  
Zevran put the back of his hand to his mouth and brought it away bloody. "I only hope you have not damaged my beauty. That would be a pity."  
  
"Are you - are you  _flirting_  with me?" asks Alistair.  
  
"I am shameless," says Zevran. It was amazing how much being hit in the face had improved his mood.  
  
"Is this how you show me how sorry you are?" Alistair clenches his fist again and Zevran takes a quick, cautionary step backward.  
  
"Shall I lie to you?" asks Zevran. "I thought you desirable long before all this blood magic nonsense. I find you so still. But if you prefer, I will desist from mentioning it."  
  
Alistair flushes. "Just because I - I know you heard ... Just stay out of my head!" He turns and stomps away.  
  
Wynne refuses to heal Zevran. She hands him an elfroot poultice, tells him to hold it against his lip for an hour, and sends him off with the most severe, disapproving look he's been on the end of since he completed his Crow training.  
  
Leliana raises her eyebrows at him as he ducks out of Wynne's tent, red, moist cloth in hand. "I see things are going well," she says, sotto voice. "A kiss with a fist is better than none, no?"  
  
"Well, we've gotten up to the fist, at least," says Zevran.  
  
"I wish you luck." Leliana smiles, amused and coy. "You will need it."  
  
"Are you tutoring him?" asks Zevran. "That is hardly fair."  
  
"' _En amour comme à la guerre, tous les coups sont permis_.'" Leliana smirks.  
  
"And is it love or is it war that we are engaged in here?"  
  
"Your lip is bleeding," she says, turning away.  
  
He retires to his tent and lays on his back, letting the elfroot sink into his torn skin and bruised jaw. He realizes he is smiling only when his lip splits again.

 *

"You may, if you wish."  
  
It is two nights later and they are camped in the lee of a rocky outcropping, pine trees lending their scent to the chill air. Zevran lingers after his watch is done, eying Alistair from a careful distance.  
  
"May what?" His emotions are tamped down, difficult to read.  
  
"Kiss me, of course."  
  
"Really," says Alistair. There is a little spike of  _excitement_ , there and then gone again. "I can't believe I once asked your advice on wooing."  
  
"You wound me," says Zevran. "I only offer because ..."  
  
"Because you heard me think about wanting to," says Alistair. "But I would never have  _said_  that to you, would I? Wanting to do something and actually doing it are two different things."  
  
"Am I supposed to ignore it, then?" asks Zevran. "This - desire we both know you harbour?"  
  
"I'm not  _harbouring_  it. There is no  _harbour_. And yes, you're supposed to ignore it. You shouldn't have heard it, so you should act like you didn't."  
  
"That is absurd."  
  
"No." Alistair shifts his shoulders, making his plate clank. "It's polite."  
  
"I did not realize there was an etiquette for our situation," says Zevran.  
  
"I'm making one up," says Alistair. "And that's one of the rules. Emotions too, you can't use those against me."  
  
"Like your current smirking satisfaction?" Zevran asks, needled.  
  
Alistair's lips twitch. "Exactly."  
  
The bard is responsible for this, Zevran knows. It is apparent in the way she smiles at Zevran in the morning as they eat their breakfast, in the way she and Alistair spend time together both on the march and at camp. It is a conspiracy, he is sure. Natia watches and grins, Morrigan rolls her eyes, Wynne shakes her head in fond exasperation.  
  
The only ones who do not comment, verbally or otherwise are Sten and the dog. Sten has taken to staring at Natia in a way that Zevran does not like, a weighing, measuring, judging sort of look, as though she is a tool that he is finding unfit for his purpose. When he speaks of it to her, she waves him off.  
  
"I know," she says irritably. "He keeps complaining that we are heading away from our goal, that the ashes of some dead woman are not essential to battling the archdemon. Can't really argue with him there but Ali thinks this is necessary, so up this fucking mountain we go." She shivers and wraps her cloak more tightly around herself. "Snow. I would not have believed it. Of all the crazy stories about the surface to be true ..."  
  
"He will not long restrict himself to words, I fear," says Zevran. "Keep an eye on him."  
  
"I am," says Natia. "Tend your own business, Zev. I can tend mine."  
  
"Your welfare is my business," says Zevran. "I did swear an oath."  
  
"Let's not get into how well you are keeping your oath, shall we?" says Natia, with a nasty edge. "Leave me alone, Zev, or I'm going to stab you in the leg."  
  
Sten has first watch and Zevran leaves his tent flap open just a fraction, watching the dark hulk of him beyond the fire.

 *

Natia gets more and more morose as they make their way up the mountain. She develops a sniffle that never quite turns into a cold and about which Wynne can do nothing.  
  
"If I didn't know better," says the mage, "I would say that you are allergic to snow."  
  
Natia glares at her through red, watery eyes. "Thad's bery helbful," she says.  
  
Zevran is also plagued. Alistair takes to walking near him, though not  _with_  him, and indulging in  _something_  that causes the most distracting flares of emotion. It is revenge, pure and simple, these abrupt spikes of  _want_. Followed, always, by smug amusement. Alistair's open, politely inquiring face is the worst part of it.  
  
Or so he thinks, until the night he wakes up in a shuddering sweat, the screams of the archdemon still vibrating in his ears. He's bitten his tongue, and the blood is hot and cloying in his mouth. When he leans out of his tent to spit he sees Alistair's tent flap thrown back and Alistair himself standing in the frosty air, chest heaving like a bellows, hands fisted at his sides. He is looking at Natia's tent and after a moment he squats by the flap and says something softly.  
  
Zevran is too far away to hear but the lingering aftermath of  _fear fury horror concern_  is clear enough. It is Alistair's dream he just experienced.  
  
Whatever Natia says to him, it is enough to make Alistair rise and turn back to his tent. Zevran catches his breath. Alistair is shirtless in the chill air. Steam rises not only from his breath but from his shoulders and chest. He remembers the heat of Alistair's mouth, Alistair's body pressed to his, the way he'd felt engulfed and overwhelmed and overtaken by Alistair's presence.  
  
Alistair looks over at him and the  _concern_  spikes again. Alistair hesitates and then comes over, bare feet crunching on the snow.  
  
"I guess I didn't think ..." he says, dropping to an easy crouch. His stomach muscles flex and bunch. "I'm sorry, Zev. You shouldn't have to see that."  
  
"Are your feet not frozen?" Zev asks stupidly.  
  
"Hmm? No, I'm fine. Grey Wardens run hot. Are you alright? The dreams ... they aren't easy to get used to."  
  
Zevran shudders again, unable to help himself. It is less the sheer, corrupted horror of the archdemon that still haunts him than the sick, gut-deep resonance of the darkspawn, the way their whispering had almost made sense, the way the archdemon had looked directly at him, and  _known_  him, hated him, wished his death with every ounce of a fallen god's will...  
  
"Zev," says Alistair and puts his hand on Zevran's thigh, carefully touching only leather. His hand is warm as an Antivan summer day. "Try not to think about it."  
  
"It hates you," says Zevran. "You, personally."  
  
"Well, yes," says Alistair. "Me and Natia. We're Grey Wardens. It knows what that means."  
  
"What does it mean?" Zevran shivers, this time simply from the cold.  
  
"Don't worry about it," says Alistair. He pats Zevran once and then takes his hand away. Zevran misses it immediately. "Go back to sleep," he adds. "Don't worry, I won't be sleeping anymore tonight."  
  
Zevran watches Alistair duck back into his tent and realizes that he knows absolutely nothing about him.

 *

Haven. Any village with a name like that had to be compensating for something, Zevran speculates, as they round another bend in the mountain road and finally see the sad cluster of houses against the mountainside.   
  
"Thag the ancesdors," says Natia morosely. "Thing someone here can mayg mulled wine?"  
  
"Warden." It is Sten, his craggy, disapproving face gone even more dour. "I must speak with you."  
  
"Riyd now?" Natia stops and looks up at him, her red-nosed face poking out of her fur hood rather like a mole out of its burrow.  
  
"Yes," says Sten and Zevran is suddenly on alert, trying to think of a way to warn her.  
  
Natia tilts her head and he realizes that there is no need. "Speag," she says.   
  
Sten looms over her. "I merely wish to comment on your interesting strategy. Tell me: Do you intend to keep going north until it becomes south, and attack the archdemon from the rear?"  
  
Zevran half-expects a quip, something in her usual vein of flippant deflection. "This is necessary," she says.   
  
"Is it? I see. I was mistaken, then. It seemed to me that we were climbing a mountain in the middle of nowhere to find the charred remnants of a dead woman."  
  
Leliana sucks in a breath and Natia holds up a hand in her direction. "We need the Ashes for the Arl. We need the Arl for the Landsmeet. We need the Landsmeet to deal with Loghain and we need Loghain dealt with so we can face the Blight. You already know this, Sten."  
  
"I will not simply follow in your shadow as you run from battle," says Sten, frustration leaking through in his words.  
  
Naria becomes very still. "Oh?" she asks.  
  
"I am taking over," he announces and she is suddenly in motion, her fur cloak vast aside, her blades already in her hands. Sten grasps for his axe, dropping into a crouch, but she is somersaulting through his legs, daggers spinning out, and he bellows in pain and surprise. When she bounds to her feet behind him he only barely evades her brutal stomp-kick at his knee.  
  
"Natia!" Leliana cries. Alistair seizes her elbow, keeps her from charging out.  
  
"It's a challenge," he says as she glares at him. "She doesn't want him dead."  
  
The combatants separate, circling. He is wounded, nearly hamstrung on the left but still so massive compared to her, a mabari dueling a kitten. Zevran knows the simple mathematics of battle. Sten's wound gives her a chance, just a chance. His reach is more than twice hers, he weighs three times as much, and he is a canny, skilled fighter.   
  
Zevran pulls a knife, glances at Wynne. "Be ready," he says. She nods, gathers blue healing light about her fingers.  
  
Sten charges. That he can do so on his injured leg is impressive, nearly as impressive as the sight of him, closing the distance between Natia and himself like an avalanche. She waits for him, that eager little smile on her face - she was born for battle, 'nothing better than a dust-up' she once told Zevran - and at the very last minute, dodges.   
  
He nearly has her anyway, a wicked-quick slice of his axe passing close enough to her face that Alistair bites off a curse and half-steps forward. But she is moving, is fine, is in behind Sten, one hand hooked into his battle harness at the small of his back and the other ...  
  
She stabs him in the back of the knee, twice, then kicks away and watches him collapse.  
  
He stays down. Lets go his axe and waits, kneeling awkwardly on his functional leg. There is a large quantity of his blood down his armor, on the snow.  
  
"Is this whad you wanded?" Natia asks him.   
  
"I was wrong. You are strong enough." He shifts, his mouth tightening minutely. "What now?"  
  
"Heal 'im," says Natia. Wynne's magic winds around his leg. "Ged up," she says. "I need you, Sten. But this is the last time we have this conversation. Yeah?"  
  
"As you command," he says.

"As easy as that?" Alistair asks, incredulous. "She knocks him in the dust and he's suddenly convinced?"  
  
"I have seen a great many things," says Zevran. "This is certainly in the top five strangest."  
  
"Stranger than a Witch of the Wilds leaving her swamp?" asks Leliana. "Or the son of a King scrubbing dishes in a river?"  
  
"Oi," says Alistair.  _relief pride_  He grins at Leliana and, for a bare moment, at Zevran.   
  
"Stranger than a Crow finding he still possesses a heart?" Leliana murmurs in Zevran's ear.

 *

Haven is as horrible as Zevran expected it to be. Hostile innkeeps, creepy children with fingerbones, not to mention all the roads are ridiculously steep and ankle deep in not-quite-frozen mud. When they discover the bloody altar, Natia's eyes go all flinty and Alistair is putting off  _eager angry wary_  strongly enough that Zevran could use it as a beacon.  
  
"Hear that?" Leliana asks, raising a hand for quiet. "I think they are surrounding the ..."  
  
The door bursts open and villagers pour through, wielding a motley mix of farming implements, blunt objects, and the occasional dagger or sword.  
  
The altar isn't the only thing that's bloody when they win through outside. It's a slaughter, all the way up the slope to the Chantry, killing without challenge or reason, as far as Zevran can tell, and he is sickened by the waste of life, by the way his blade sinks into unprotected flesh ...  
  
_That is not my emotion_ , Zevran realizes, just as a spike of sudden  _fear_  jerks his head around. Alistair is grappling with three villagers. They have him against the low wall separating the road from the cliff beyond, forcing him backwards. A step away, a young woman lies with his sword through her belly. The Havenites press, the wall crumbles a little more.  _fear vertigo frustration_  
  
Zevran dodges a pitchfork, cuts the rude innkeep from groin to gullet and arrives at Alistair's side in time to stab two of his assailants and kick the third in the face. Alistair flails, the wall gives way, and Zevran clutches his armoured hand and is nearly dragged over the edge with him. They teeter dangerously, every muscle in Zevran's body straining, then Alistair regains his balance.  
  
"Thanks," he says.  _relief_ , a single emotion as pure as crystal.  
  
"Think nothing of it," says Zevran. He bends, wrenches Alistair's sword from the dead woman's flesh, and tosses the weapon over.  
  
"Maker," says Alistair.  _horror pity regret_  
  
"Waste no time on her," says Zevran. "She earned her death, bought it fairly. That you bested her is not a sin."  
  
"I -" says Alistair and then another wave is upon them, this time with archers. Alistair hefts his shield and charges.  
  
More killing, and more, while the mud churns red beneath their feet. The Chantry is a trap and the so-called Father a madman. At least Genitivi is still alive.  
  
"Cultists and blasphemy," says Leliana. "May the Maker forgive them."  
  
"I was so hoping for chains," says Zevran, winning a snort from Natia and an unmistakable pulse of  _amusement_  from Alistair.  
  
"Leli, Al, Zev, you're with me," says Natia. "The rest of you stay here, in case this hole full of crazy still has some crazy left in it."  
  
"I wish to accompany you," says Genitivi, pushing himself away from Wynne's assisting hands. "I have not come so far to stop on the very threshhold of my goal."  
  
Natia eyes him up and down and then shrugs. "So long as we don't have to carry you."  
  
They have to clear the path of bodies before Genitivi can hobble out on the crutch that Wynne hastily cobbles together for him. Alistair keeps his face impassive but the  _revulsion regret grief_  beats against Zevran like waves.  
  
"Don't say it," says Alistair when Zevran glances at him. "I know it had to be done. I don't have to like it."  
  
"They were trying to kill you."  
  
"I know that."  _anger resentment_  "Maker's breath, I'm not a fool. I just - not all of us are made of stone and discipline and self-interest, alright?" Alistair blows out his breath, turns, and stomps away toward the Chantry.  
  
Zevran remains on the road, mud and blood congealing on his hands. "If only it were so," he mutters, when Alistair is far enough not to hear.

* 

While Zevran isn't exactly in  _favour_  of crazed villages, dragonspawn, and homicidal cultists, they do have a certain solidity, a degree of can-be-stabbed that he appreciates. Unlike, for example, ghostly, even-voiced gatekeepers.  
  
"So, I have to fight you?" Natia asks.  
  
"It is not my place to decide your worthiness," says the Guardian. "The Gauntlet will do that."  
  
"Gosh that sounds like fun," Alistair mutters.  _unease determination_  
  
"Sh," Leliana whispers. "We stand in a holy place."  
  
"Fine," says Natia, rolling her shoulders. "Let's get on with it, then."  
  
"I must ask you a question, before you pass," says the Guardian.  
  
"What, like a riddle?" says Natia. "I hate riddles."  
  
The Guardian's voice drops a little, becomes kinder. "I see that the path that led you here was not easy. There is suffering in your past – your suffering, and the suffering of others. You rose above your caste to become a Grey Warden, but you left behind your family who relied on you. Tell me, pilgrim, did you fail them?"  
  
Natia's face is white beneath her tattoos and she has gone utterly still. Alistair is looking at her, his own face strained.  _empathy anger love pain_    
  
"How the fuck do you know about that?" she asks.  
  
"Your path is laid out before me and plain to see – in the lines of your face and the scars on your heart." Still so calm, so gentle. "Do you believe you failed your friends and family?"  
  
_anger_  like a bitter red wave and Alistair steps forward.   
  
Natia holds up her hand to halt him. "Yes," she says, flatly.  
  
The Guardian nodded and then turned his hollow gaze on the rest of them. "And what of those that follow you?"   
  
_Brasca,_  Zevran thinks, his stomach knotting.  
  
"Why do you say the Maker speaks to you?" The Guardian tilts his head at Leliana. "He spoke only to Andraste. Do you believe yourself her equal?"  
  
"What? No!" Leliana stutters.  
  
"Did you miss your life in Orlais, your importance? When your cloister brothers and sisters were shocked at your claims, whispered about you, when your name was on everyone's lips, was that not satisfying to you?"  
  
"You're saying I made it up for the attention?" Her voice rises. "I did not. I know what I believe."  
  
The Guardian turns away. "Alistair, knight and Warden... you wonder if things would have been different if you were with Duncan on the battlefield. You could have shielded him from the killing blow. You wonder, don't you, if you should have died, and not him?"  
  
The  _shame guilt grief_  that spills out of Alistair is nearly enough to bring Zevran to his knees.   
  
" _Ojete_ ," Zevran snaps. "Why do you not simply stab him in the heart?"  
  
"The Antivan elf," says the Guardian, turning to him.  
  
"Oh, is it my turn now? I am so excited."  
  
"Many have died at your hand. Is there any you regret more than a woman named - "  
  
"Yes," says Zevran quickly, wanting this to be over, to be done. "Yes, I regret her death."  
  
"Your heart has closed like a flower in frost," says the Guardian. "Do you not wish that it could open again?"  
  
There is no air in his lungs. He cannot look at Alistair.  _shock uncertainty empathy_  "How very romantic you are, for a spirit," he says.   
  
The Guardian turns back to Natia. "The way is open. Good luck, and may you find what you seek." He fades away.  
  
"Well," says Natia. "That was fun." She looks to Alistair. "Alright?"  
  
"I'm fine," he says. Zevran can feel the pressure of his gaze.  
  
"He was just - challenging us," says Leliana. "That's all."  
  
"Right," says Natia. "I can already tell I'm going to love this. Let's go." She throws the door open with unnecessary force and stomps away down the hall. Leliana follows her.  
  
"After you," says Zevran to Alistair.  
  
"Zev," says Alistair. "Who was he talking about? The woman?"  
  
"This is neither the time nor the place," says Zevran.  
  
"Right," says Alistair.  _embarrassment curiosity caring_  
  
"When we are done here," Zevran says, before he knows he is going to say it. There is a symmetry to it, in a way. He knows so much about Alistair that Alistair wishes he did not. "If you still wish to know."  
  
Alistair pauses in the doorway. "I - yeah. Alright."   
  
_hope_  
  
For once, Zevran cannot tell whose emotion it is.

 *

Everything is fine until Zevran has to kill himself.  
  
Leliana answers the eight shades in their nooks, Andrastian history and riddles alike no challenge to her swift mind. Natia seems unsurprised to see the dwarf waiting for them on the other side of the next door, bends her head close to his for a quick, muttered conversation, and then pockets the trinket he passes her without looking at it. When he vanishes into nothing, she nods briefly to herself, tosses her braids out of her face and then marches forward.  
  
Alistair gnaws on his lip during this,  _worry_  and _love_ boiling off him. Outwardly, he seems to have forgotten the Guardian's words to him, though Zevran is sure he has not. It is only that Alistair never thinks on his own hurts when others are in need. He catches those brown eyes on himself as he steps out to follow Natia.   
  
The next room is empty, or seemingly so. Natia holds up a hand as Alistair makes to step forward.  
  
"What?" he asks. "Traps?"  
  
"No," she says. Her eyes narrow. Her square jaw works for a moment and then she takes one deliberate step forward.  
  
A sigh, a shimmer of air from the far side of the room, and Alistair sticks his arm out in front of her just in time to catch the arrow on his shield.   
  
Leliana lets out a strangled little cry as the archer steps out from behind a pillar. Red hair, leather curaiss, plush lips now spread in a wicked little smile.   
  
"I don't suppose you have a twin, Leli?" asks Natia.   
  
The other Leliana raises the bow again and they all break to the sides, seeking cover. Natia abruptly jukes left and Zevran sees himself emerge from the shadows just behind her and drive two very familiar daggers downward into the air where her back had just been.   
  
" _Brasca_!" he spits. "It is all of us!" he shouts. "Beware!"

A wall collides with his back and he is sent flying, skidding past his doppelganger and fetching up, bruised and momentarily bewildered, against a pillar.  _Shield,_  he thinks muzzily. A shout of rage and then the clang of steel seem to indicate that Alistair has found the not-Alistair.   
  
A whisper of air and the barest scuff of leather on stone serve as warning. He rolls, lashing out with one foot, and comes smoothly to his feet with both daggers out, dropping into a crouch. And he is then parrying, parrying as fast as he can while this thing with his face smiles mockingly at him and anticipates his every move. He is cut three times in as many breaths before he can regain his balance.  
  
"Trade!" Leliana shouts, across the room, and he sees over his double's shoulder the two women swap opponents, Natia rolling under Leliana's graceful leap and coming up low beneath the fake Leliana's guard. The fake Natia backs two steps as Leliana comes at her.  
  
_Brilliant,_  he thinks, falling back to gain half a second to scan the room and find Alistair. There, two figures in steel, pounding one another relentlessly with blade and shield and pommel. One of them punches the other in the face. Blood flies. Zevran opens his mouth and then shuts it again. Which is which?   
  
"Wandering eyes?" purrs the other Zevran, flipping his left dagger exactly the way that Zevran does it, to distract and intimidate. "I am wounded. Am I not enough to hold your attention?"  
  
To hear him speak is deeply unsettling. "Your delivery could use some work," he lies. "A poor imitation, I have to tell you. Shoddy workmanship. For instance, I have much better legs than that." He stomps downward on the last word, a dirty trick that Taliesen taught him once and that he rarely uses, since it better suited to someone with more body weight. The other Zevran does not snatch his own foot away in time and grunts a curse as Zevran's heel lands on his instep.

Zevran smiles.   
  
He tosses his usual style out the window and goes at his double directly, brutally, hammering him with front kicks and punches and elbow strikes. He knows this body, he remembers every scar and tender spot, the way his left smallfinger never truly healed from a master Crow's object lesson, the way he will flinch not at the first strike to the eyes, but the third. He knows his vanity, his ego, he knows that he does not always duck fast enough from left handed blows.   
  
He knows his fear.  
  
He stomp-kicks his left knee, hears the joint crack. His face distorts in pain too great to mask. Zevran follows Zevran across the floor as he tries to block, tries to straighten, hunger rising in his gut. That look, the look that speaks so clearly of the death that is about to come, rising in the champagne brown of his eyes. He has seen it before in those eyes, in the mirror. He has felt it, stepping out onto a dusty road with fifteen hired blades and a half-trained apostate, hoping desperately to die at a Warden's hands because he does not have courage to put the knife to his own throat.   
  
He puts the knife to his throat.

 "No!"  
  
_panic fear rage_  and then he is hit by a shield  _again_ , goes tumbling across the floor again but recovers better this time. He rolls up, his whole right side throbbing like a sick tooth and sees Alistair standing athwart his double, bloodied sword held out, shield held low to cover the man on the floor.   
  
"Ali!" Natia runs up, then stops short. "Shit," she says. "Ok. Wait."  
  
Leliana has an arrow in her bow, has it half-drawn, not quite pointing it at anyone. "How do we know?" she asks.   
  
"Step away from him!" Zevran says, takes half a step toward Alistair.  
  
"You stay back," Alistair says, but there is doubt in his voice now,  _doubt_  lacing the air.  
  
"How do we know about - any of us?" Leliana asks, bending her bow.  
  
Zevran casts his knives to the floor and steps within Alistair's reach. "I know," he says.   
  
_relief_  and Alistair lets his sword droop. Zevran steps closer, to see those eyes warm, that mouth quirk into a tiny smile. And so he is close enough to drop to one knee, catch the other Zevran's hand in both of his, and bury the short murderknife meant for Alistair's thigh or groin into the hollow of a dark smooth throat.  
  
The satisfaction is sharp and bitter.  
  
"Maker's breath!" Alistair blurts.  _shock dismay_  a brief spike of genuine  _anguish_  and then the other Zevran wavers as if seen through heat shimmer and vanishes. Even the blood is gone, that on the floor and that on Zevran's hands.   
  
"Well," says Natia. "Alright. Good. I'm going to call that one a win. Anyone need a potion?"  
  
"Yeah," says Alistair. "The other me got me good, wrenched my shoulder."  
  
"I saw that," says Leliana. "Your favorite move, no? You should not fallen for that."  
  
"You and Natia had the right idea," says Alistair. "Fighting myself ... brr. Creepy."  
  
Natia lays a hand on Zevran's shoulder, passes him a flask that stinks of elfroot. He swallows, grimacing. One of Morrigan's, harsh on the tongue and hot in the belly.   
  
"Sorry about that shield bash," says Alistair, offering him a gauntleted hand up from the ground. "I lost track in the fight, thought that he was you - well, he  _was_  you, but you know what I mean, I thought that -"  
  
"Yes, yes, no harm done. No permanent harm," Zevran amends, as his entire left side protests his standing.  
  
"Are - are you alright?" Alistair asks. He keeps Zevran's hand clasped in his. The warmth of his palm radiates through the arming glove, through Zevran's own glove. Moisture beads in Alistair's hairline and Zevran can smell him, steel and sweat and soap.  _concern caring_  and he is so tired of feeling this way, of feeling Alistair's surging, messy, uncontrolled emotions.  
  
He is so tired of feeling. And killing himself, apparently, is no answer. It would be funny, if it weren't so terribly true.  
  
"I am fine, truly." He pulls his hand away.   
  
"You still owe me a story," says Alistair.  
  
"A Crow pays his debts," says Zevran. "Let us just go pinch these ashes, yes?"

It is a testament to his state of mind that he cannot summon so much as a leer when they are forced to strip to their skins. He steps through the holy fire with his eyes fixed forward and his awareness of Alistair's all-consuming embarrassment tamped down as hard as he can manage.  
  
It is a shock when Natia turns toward him, grey dust held between her forefinger and thumb. "Open up," she demands and then wipes the ancient remains of Holy Andraste across his tongue.  
  
Leliana watches, her lower lip clamped between her teeth. Alistair half-lifts a hand in protest and then lowers it, his expression hovering between concern and curiosity.  
  
Zevran swallows grittily and cocks an eyebrow at Natia.   
  
She lifts her own in reply, tilts her head at Alistair. "So? Still hear him?"  
  
_hope embarrassment_  
  
"Yes," says Zevran.  
  
"Huh," says Natia and gives the small pouch in her other hand a jaundiced look.  
  
"It heals the sick," says Leliana. "Neither of them are ill."  
  
"Huh,' Natia says again and tucks the pouch away. "Well, worth a shot."  
  
Zevran trades glances with Alistair as they turn away from the shrine.  _relief_  Relief?  
  
"Truly?" he asks, sotto voice, while Natia strides away from the place as she always leaves a battlefield - without hesitation or a single glance back.  
  
Alistair, to his credit, does not try to pretend that he doesn't know what Zevran means. "Well," he says. "Maybe it's ... not so bad, knowing that someone understands. And it actually came in handy today."  
  
"Somehow I think that battling one's own doppleganger to the death is not a common occurrence."  
  
Alistair huffs a laugh, while  _amusement_  tickles along the back of Zevran's skull. "Still," he says but does not elaborate.  
  
Leliana has run ahead, hovering close to Natia's side until Natia sighs, digs in her pocket, and hands the ashes over. Leliana takes - no, _receives_  them, awe and gratitude washing over her face.  
  
"I do not understand," Zevran says.  
  
"Well, this is pretty much the most important thing that's ever happened to her," Alistair begins.  _fondness envy_  
  
"I do not understand  _you_ ," Zevran elaborates.   
  
"I'm not that complicated," says Alistair.  _doubt uncertainty shame_  by all the gods, always shame.  
  
"Stop," says Zevran, clenching his fists. "For one moment, will you stop flogging yourself. You have the self assurance of a beaten cur and I cannot bear it any longer."  
  
_shock_ Alistair physically recoils from him, eyes wide and mouth open, and Zevran curses, hopelessly, in Antivan.  
  
"Not fair," says Alistair, his voice shaky. "Bringing up my - you aren't supposed to -"  _shame_ , stronger than before, it is going to drive Zevran insane. 

"You are worthy," Zevran says. "You are _good_."

Alistair makes a sound that is not quite a laugh. "I'm not," he says. "You can't say that."

Zevran stops, seizes a strap of Alistair's breastplate, and drags the other man down to meet his eyes. "I? I cannot say it? I am the most qualified person in the gods-forsaken world, you great, golden fool." And he rises on his toes to meet those pink lips with his own. They are slack and surprised, then tight with sudden discomfort and then, then ...  
  
_... why don't not fair Zev please can't bear it ohMakerhismouth tonguetongue! smoothhotwet yesyes wait why why oh to the Void with it ..._  
  
Arms suddenly around him, all the emotions resolving abruptly into a surge of  _want_  everything else falling away and Zevran is drowning again in Alistair, every sense and the farthest corners of his mind filled with soap and warmth and yes.  
  
"Ahem."  
  
Alistair's mouth lifts away, the arms are gone, and Zevran is left teetering, blinking stupidly at Natia, who stands with arms folded and mouth pursed.  
  
"It's um, it's fine," says Alistair hurriedly. "Don't glare at him, Nat, it's fine."  
  
"He does not look 'fine.'" Leliana is smirking rather horribly.  
  
Natia snaps her fingers in front of Zevran's face and he swats at her hand irritably. "Huh," she says, as if he is a rough ounce of dubious holy ash.  
  
"Shall we move on?" he manages, brushing past her and ignoring Leliana's muffled snerk. By the gods, he is  _blushing,_  a sensation so foreign that it is almost more fascinating than humiliating. Almost.  
  
_pleasure surprise amusement happiness_  
  
Well. Perhaps a small portion of humiliation is not such a great price to pay.

 *

Genitivi is thrilled, no, ecstatic with the revelation that the Shrine is real, that they have found Andraste's resting place. He and Leliana have a moment of awe together over the Ashes before Natia is chivvying them all into motion again. The rest of the party has cleared the bodies out of the inn, and that's where they set up camp. Wynne expends herself on Genitivi again and then retires. Sten, having drawn first watch, stalks out the door to make rounds. Morrigan shapeshifts into a bear and wanders off, presumably to sleep somewhere other than the stinking confines of a recent slaughterhouse.  
  
The rest of them are not so picky. They drag mattresses down to the main room, build up the fire, and bed down for the night.  
  
All but Zevran. He waits until the breathing of his companions has settled, and then taps Alistair gently on the shoulder. Alistair blinks at him.  
  
"I have a debt to repay," says Zevran softly, and then rises.  
  
Alistair follows him up the inn stairs to one of the empty rooms, doesn't balk when Zevran goes out the window, climbs well if not gracefully onto the roof, and sits down next to Zevran, one side snugged against the chimney, feet braced against the slate shingles.  
  
Zevran looks up at the stars, savoring the chill bite of the air. Alistair is close enough for Zevran to feel the heat coming off him. Close enough to touch. Zevran wraps his arms around his knees instead, laces his fingers together.   
  
"Her name was Rinna," he begins.  
  
Alistair listens well. He makes no noise. He focuses on Zevran with simple attention and then drops his eyes away when Zevran's voice falters, allowing him a small measure of privacy. When Zevran speaks of Rinna's death, his voice flat and chill, Alistair lets out a small breath, not quite a sigh.  _pain_  seeps slowly out of him, and  _caring_  and  _sympathy_ , which is hard to cope with. Zevran keeps talking.  
  
"I wanted to die, myself," says Zevran, musingly. "A sentimental assassin is a broken tool, and the Crows have little use for the broken."  
  
"So you came to Ferelden," says Alistair. "And took on Natia."  
  
Zevran smiles.  
  
"I always thought that was a bit of a stupid way to go about it," Alistair says. "Given your ... skills."  
  
"Do you think I could have seduced her?" Zevran asks, looking sidelong at Alistair.  
  
Alistair laughs shortly.  _regret weariness shame_  though the shame part was trailing and weaker than usual. "No. She's not like - no."   
  
_Not like me_ , Zevran hears, and drops his head. "I am sorry," he says. "I truly am."  
  
"Thank you," says Alistair. "I accept your apology." _affection pride_  
  
Zevran gapes at him.  
  
Alistair leans his head back and looks at the stars, grinning. “I might be an idiot,” he says, “but so are you, Zev.”

It surprises a laugh out of Zevran. “I am,” he agrees. “May the absent gods witness.” He looks at Alistair, his hair glinting in the moonlight. He feels flayed open. He feels free. He lets the moment carry him further into truth. “I would like to kiss you,” he says.

Alistair looks back at him, smile going soft and fond. “I know. But it’s not fair.”

Zevran turns fully toward Alistair. “How do I make it right?”

"I don't know." Alistair ducks his head and gestures awkwardly. “It’s hard. Knowing that you can feel, that you can hear my, my everything and all I get is –“

“Alistair.” Zevran inches closer.

“What?” Alistair isn’t drawing away. 

Zevran looks at Alistair’s lips and they part slightly, as if his gaze had weight, were pressing them gently open. “I feel desire. I feel happiness. I feel,” he swallows, “fear, that you will not receive me, that you will turn me away. I feel as though I am a bird and also as though I am dying, sitting here, looking at your mouth and thinking,” he hovers his fingertips over Alistair’s lower lip, “what if I never get to touch him again?”

“Zev.” Alistair’s lips shape his name and brush, just barely, against Zevran’s skin. _Please_

Zevran pulls back, looks into Alistair’s eyes. Waits. _Longing_ and _need_ are a tsunami, building in the air around them.

“Please touch me,” Alistair says, out loud.

Zevran kisses him.

_Yes good finally Zev can you yes oh like that yes your tongue I want yes oh yes_

Zevran holds firmly to his self control, difficult as it is with Alistair’s _joy_ surging through him. He breaks the kiss and pulls away, hot and trembling.

Alistair blinks at him. “Why did you –“ _disappointment_

“We need to get off this roof,” Zevran says. “Immediately.”

“Oh,” says Alistair. “Why?”

Zevran cocks an eyebrow at him. “I appreciate your high opinion of my skills, but not even I can make love on a slope of ice and hope to maintain purchase.”

“Oh!” Alistair huffs a little laugh. Trepidation embarrassment “Is that – are we?”

“If that is what you want,” Zevran says.

“I, um. Oh, the Void with it,” says Alistair, strips off a glove, and puts his hand, large and warm, on Zevran’s face. _I want but please don’t leave don’t lie don’t hurt me I can’t I think afraid please_

Zevran drags in a breath, puts his hand over Alistair’s and smiles at him. “I won’t,” he promises.

“Alright,” says Alistair, smiling helplessly. “That actually – it’s kind of easier-“ _don’t have to find words_

“How I wish you could hear me, also,” Zevran confesses.

“I hear you,” Alistair says, and pushes his fingers behind Zevran’s ear and into his hair, making Zevran shiver as if with fever. _I hear you,_ Alistair says, again, and pulls them together in another kiss. 

 


End file.
